Reincarnation is a Bitch
by earthgirl3015
Summary: Two souls travel through time, almost always finding each other, but always torn apart. In other words, what if these two souls were in every romantic tragic story you've ever heard of?
1. Chapter 1

A/N Hello. So, I love reincarnation fics, and I thought, wouldn't it be cool if two souls went through history, almost always finding each other, but being tragically torn apart. Basically if these two souls were part of every tragic romantic story you've ever heard. Every story will be narrated from the point of view of one of the souls, and I am going to try my hardest to make their identities a mystery throughout the entire work, so you guys can have a go at figuring out who they are. Enjoy.

The first time she sees him, she doesn't really. She's wearing a veil and he is a large shadowy figure at the end of her father's hall. He looks like a giant, walking forward in the light of the torches, but as he approaches the dais where she and her family sit, he shrinks back down into what he is, a man come to kneel at the feet of a king, seeking his daughter's hand.

Her father agrees. He would be a fool not to. The Prince who has asked for her comes from a wealthy city, with walls so high that only the gods could have built them. Her bride price is extensive. As she stands to leave she allows her veil to flutter open, audaciously seeking the face of the man who has just bought her.

Dark hair. Sturdy shoulders. The hilt of a bronze sword in its leather scabbard. Legs sculpted from hours of running and horse riding. Sandals of the finest leather. And a dark brown eye that catches hers with a look of pleased surprise.

Her father feasts him that night. The wedding will be the next morning. She does not look at him throughout the dinner and makes no attempt to see his face again. After tomorrow she will see it plenty. She is numb and empty. Yesterday she was a daughter, a woman of her household, a princess in her land. Tomorrow she will be a stranger's wife and shipped off to a land of gods and their sons.

She trembles as she stands to leave for the night. In the silence that falls, he also stands and bids her good night. This causes a stir. Muffled laughter from the men, who say he wishes her one last night of peace before she is a wedded wife. A small gasp from her mother, who did not expect him to speak to her daughter with such familiarity. A throat clearing from her father, who did not expect his story to be interrupted just for a few words of farewell. She does not know what to say, so she inclines her head enough for her veil to move, for him to see she acknowledges him, and then she scurries away.

Her mother follows not long after, saying she is blessed.

"He must be in love with you already," she says. As she climbs into her bed for the last time, she finds that hard to believe.

The wedding is a simple enough affair. The two of them stand side by side, in their best clothes, the veil still pulled over her face, while the priest says the words and spills the wine. Her parents and a handful of his men stand as witnesses. As soon as the ceremony is over, the men run off to finish the preparations for moving a new princess to her new city. Only then does she start to cry.

The journey from her city to the docks is only an hour but it feels much longer. For she rides behind him in his chariot, nervous about touching him, and almost unable not to. The roads in her country are unforgiving and she is nearly thrown from the chariot twice before he catches her hand and presses it into a fold of his tunic.

"Hold on," he says, in a calm and measured tone. His voice is deep and kind. She holds on, but lightly.

The boat that takes them to the coast of his country cuts swiftly through the sea, bearing her quickly to her new home. She should stay below, she knows this. Up here on deck she will only be a distraction to the men. But she has rarely set foot on a boat, and has never felt the wind in her hair like this. She stands at the prow and gazes out over the azure blue, wishing that the boat journey would last forever. Her veil flies up in a sharp gust, followed by a spray of sea water which wets her bare arms. She twists to the side to pull the veil back down and, as she does, sees him standing to the side of her, staring. She puts the veil back in place and faces him. Through the veil she can see a ghost of a smile,

"There you are," he says. And then looks past her and calls for his men to ready to dock. Turning back to the waves, she sees a new coastline. She is nearly there.

The city is far in-land, but all that is in-land are plains. Sand gives way to grass and the grass spreads as far as the eye can see, cut across by a river.

"The Scamander," he calls it, and they say a prayer over it. The god that lives there is old and deserving of praise. She does not wish to anger him. The city, or rather its walls, looms high above the plains, almost like the mountain behind it. They really are as tall as the legends say. She feels about as large as an ant compared to them.

There is a procession waiting for them in the city. She stares around her in wonder at the different peoples that she can see. So many new sounds, so many new colours, the city assaults her senses and all demand her attention. She is overwhelmed before she even reaches the citadel.

But they eventually do, and his father waits for him. For them both. Her legs are weak as she climbs the stairs towards him. He rushes forwards to greet his father, clasping him around the shoulders. She stands at the top of the stairs, head bowed, the perfect woman. Under the veil she sees his feet approaching.

"Have you not taken her veil off yet?" His father has the same deep voice, but it is brittle, as if his years weigh on even his speech.

"We waited for you, Father," he says, before his sandals are in front of her, and her gauzy mask is lifted.

There is silence. And then two fingers touch under her chin and bring her face up. She looks in to ancient eyes, which have seen much pain and wonder. His father is a legend in his own right and she is staring into his eyes. A small smile graces his face.

"Welcome, child, to my family. You picked a beauty, my son. I hope you care for her well." His fingers leave her chin. She turns, almost afraid of punishment, to look upon the face of her new husband.

He is just as handsome as the stories say. He looks strong and noble. His eyes are alight with laughter and kindness. She finds herself smiling back. Her heart aches, but whether from homesickness or fear, she does not know.

His father leads the way into the palace, past the rest of her new husband's family. The queen gives her an appraising look, one born of a cold heart. Where the king is famed for his many affairs, she is the one who must suffer them all in silence. Not wishing her new mother to see her sympathy, she turns to the others.

Beautiful men and women line the hall she must walk through. She stops her jaw from dropping at their beauty, but her feeling of inadequacy heightens. Her new husband places his hand on her shoulder. His warmth seeps through the thin material of her dress. She shudders.

There is another feast laid out for them. She picks at her food; her belly turning at what she knows will come. He does not look at her throughout the meal, conversing with his father and siblings, laughing and joking with them. The perfect son and brother. She cannot fail him.

They are led to their chambers. At the sight of the bed, she begins to tremble. He notices. He steps away from her and begins to undress. She turns her head away in shame. A hand on her shoulder startles her. He is naked in front of her, his bronze skin taunt over his powerful muscles. His eyes burn into hers, a look she has never seen before, and her fear slowly turns into something else. Tentatively he reaches out to her face. She allows him to touch her. His kisses are soft and tender. She could almost believe what her mother said, from the way he handles her, as if she was the finest piece of gold. His hands are gentle as they caress and cradle her, as they peel away her outer garments, and as they tease and torment her. Tangled together on the bed, she suddenly knows of a new pleasure, one that only he can give her. And as they fall asleep in the aftermath, with one of his hands flung across her belly, she thinks that being his wife may not be so difficult after all.

The new city is loud and noisy. Dust gets everywhere and a large part of her, and the slaves', duties is to try and clear it as often as they can. Her weaving wins her favour with her new sisters, who giggle often and help her to understand her new world. Her new mother is short and stiff, but softens when she asks about the palatial garden. Soon her time is mostly split between the weaving room and the shaded garden.

While she begins to settle in to her new life, her relations with her husband are still stilted. Alone, they do not yet have the words for each other, and her new found pleasures and his obvious lust for her usually lead them back to their bed. The word to describe them would not be love. Until a new flower appears in the garden, a strange and exotic one, which smells of spice and far off lands. She asks her new mother where it came from. Her new mother tells her to ask her new husband. That night in their chambers, she is the one who treats him like the finest gold. And so it begins.

They are happy for several years, much to the pleasure of his family, and to herself as well. Marriage, for her at least, is not as difficult as it appears to be. Certainly when compared with her new parents' relationship. She has not yet had any cause to believe him unfaithful. They have no children yet, but they are not worried, for both are young and have many years ahead of them. But then events unfold, and the beginning of the end starts.

A/N So, any guesses? It's really hard not including names and writing about everyone in the first person. Constructive criticism is always welcome, being mean for the sake of it is not. Hope you enjoyed


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N** **Trigger warnings - death, child murder, suicide. I'm very sorry that it all has to go wrong, but these are tragic tales and that's kind of how it goes. You have been warned here first. **

It is a clear day. The sun is bright and hot, and the flowers are wilting slightly. She waters them with care and positions them in the shade, when one of her sisters comes running in.

"They're back," she shouts, "And they brought someone with them! A Princess! They say she's the most beautiful woman in the world!" She smiles indulgently, while her mind begins to panic. Her husband's younger brother had gone to meet with kings of the country across the seas from them. The most that could be said about his brother was that he was a lover, not a fighter, if the rumours were to be believed. And if he had brought back the most beautiful woman in the world, a woman who was already married to one of those kings across the water…she puts down her plant, takes her little sister's hand and walks as quickly to the great hall as possible.

It turns out that her little sister is correct. She and her husband stand in disbelief as his younger brother prances up the stairs, beaming as if all of his dreams have just come true. The woman who follows behind is indeed all she has been famed to be. Her hair shines in the sun, her pale features are more beautiful than any ever seen before, and even the sedate step she uses to climb to their level could inspire poets for generations. Unnerved by the god-like sight in front of her, she chances a glance at her husband. He is staring with his mouth open, but when his eyes find his brother's they sharpen and a cold look enters them. She bows her head, unwilling to see anymore.

There are words exchanged, some aloud, some in body language, some in sharp twitches of the eyes. The overall impression is that, as the pair have already eloped, there is no way to return her without losing face, or making his younger brother angry. And yet everybody felt the foreboding, that this theft would not go unpunished. Her husband orders extra troops to patrol the walls.

That night when he comes to their chambers, she expects him to push her onto the bed and moan his brother's wife's name in her ear. Instead he notices her coldness and asks her why she is afraid. She asks if he is as seduced by the woman as his brother is. He is shocked at her words and proceeds to prove, in no uncertain terms, that she is the only woman whom he feels anything for. Satisfied with his faithfulness, she huddles close to him and asks in quiet tones what will come.

"War," he says. She holds him close that night.

In less than a year the ships appear on the horizon. Hundreds and hundreds of them land on the beaches and the fighting begins. Her world retreats into the realm of nightmares. She fears to awake in the morning, knowing that he will have to leave her. She wanders through the garden, trying to preserve what little life she can while hundreds die outside the walls. She fears the evening, fears that his shadow will not darken the threshold of their chambers. And when he walks through the door, only then does the fear which has a constant grip on her falter, and they spend a few hours of happiness together, before the cycle begins again.

She hides herself with her sisters, challenging them to weave great myths, local folklore and saucy tales into the cloth, anything to keep them giggling and their minds away from the blood being spilled. Her mother is grateful for this. The cause of it all, the new princess, sometimes deigns to join them, completely ignoring the spirit of the weaving the younger girls do, and instead portraying the scenes that are happening outside the walls, to near exquisitely painful detail. It's almost as if she's enjoying this.

Eight terrifying years pass. The food stocks, once so high that doors groaned, are beginning to look worryingly empty. The tension in the city runs high. Every day sons and brothers and husbands go out to fight, and fewer and fewer come back. But luckily her husband is always one of them. Her mother always pretends that she is not worried,

"I chose his name well," she says, "We shall not fall as long as he lives." But he is not made of copper, and any day on the battlefield may be his last.

In the ninth year a sudden joy fills their lives. Her monthly bleedings stop and her belly begins to swell. When they realise the truth of it, his face shines like the sun and his eyes are alight with tears of joy. He has something else to fight for now, not just his city or his parents or his honour. His hands and body are weary when he returns at night, but he places them upon her expanding belly with such tenderness that she cries. He lingers in their room when he should be running out to the battlefield, his eyes drinking in the sight of his wife round with his child.

When the baby comes he is fighting. She screams from the pain and imagines that her cries carry outside. But then she remembers that he probably won't be able to hear her over the other screams. The pain is intense, but then it is over and she is exhausted but she's holding her baby, his child, their son, in her arms and she has never felt love before this moment. When he comes to them that night he falls to his knees and weeps tears of joy, just watching his wife with his child in arms, before tentatively reaching out to touch his finger to his son's forehead. His son squirms at his father's touch. She cries silent tears of happiness.

The fear for him becomes even more real. They both have a new presence in their lives which means more than either of them. She will die for their child and he will give himself on the battlefield if it means their son will live. But her love for him still holds and she fears even more that his shadow will not darken their bedroom's threshold.

One day, when the fighters are weary, a short truce is called. Her husband's brother is called to fight in single combat, demanding an end to this futile war and answer for his crimes. He flees, though with the help of a goddess or not, it is never discovered. Her husband comes to the walls before going to find him, and finds her and their son, watching the bloodshed. She cautions him about an area where the enemy could advance. He laughs, but seems to consider her words. In the sunlight his helmet scares their son. He takes it off to embrace him. And then he is gone again.

And finally it happens. He comes through the door with shrunken eyes and a faltering footstep, in armour that is not his own. She jumps to her feet, knowing something is wrong. He tells her that he killed a man today. A man who is beloved by one of the greatest warriors of their enemy. He will come tomorrow. He will demand a fight. She collapses to the ground in tears. He follows her, tears leaking from his eyes. He does not say he is sorry.

They clutch each other in the dark, taking what love they can from each other. There is a chance, a hope, that he could win. That he could survive. But her soul is empty, as if he is already dead.

She prays to what gods she still believes in to let the night last forever. She prays that the sun will not breach the horizon, that he will not be called away. But the gods do not listen.

He is slow the next morning, to put on the armour he stole yesterday. He gazes at his son, memorising him. He caresses her all over, remembering her shape and the taste of her mouth. And then he is gone. The silence is unbearable.

She goes about the day as though nothing can harm her, ignoring the pitying looks of the other women. If she acts like it is just a normal day, then perhaps it will end like one. But then her mother wails and shrieks and her heart splinters. She can feel it cracking inside her. She falls to the floor and weeps.

The warrior took him. He took her husband from her, to his camp, dragging his corpse behind him in his chariot. She faints when she hears this.

She endures three days of the warrior's taunting. Her son cries and so does she and there is no one to comfort them. Her mother screams and her sisters cry and the foreign queen is silent, even in mourning she is beautiful, like a shard of ice. She has never hated someone more.

Her father went to the enemy's camp under cover of darkness to get him back. She cannot find it in her to be angry, like her mother can. She is only happy to have her husband back, happy to finally let him rest. She wails and tears her hair over his body, and so does his mother, and so does the foreign queen, although she feels more pity for herself than she does for anyone surrounding her. And then the pyre is lit, and he is gone.

She rarely ventures out of their room after that. She keeps their son close, playing with him, trying to keep him happy. She tells him stories, although he is too young to understand; telling him of his father, the hero that he was.

Her sisters come to her room often. They cajole her like she does their son, trying to make her laugh, trying to get her to leave the room. She doesn't care anymore. She doesn't even care when they tell her the garden is dying. Her son is all that matters. He must live.

Once the foreign queen came to see her. She didn't touch their son. She stared around their room as if comparing it. She didn't look at her when she spoke. She listens to the harpy speak, rambling on and on about how sorry she is that he is gone.

"He wouldn't have died if it wasn't for you." Her unexpected words silence the heartless bitch before her. She stares at her, expressionless, waiting for her to leave. She bows her head and walks out the door. They do not speak again for a month.

Soon after, the enemy's ships suddenly leave. In their place is a gigantic wooden horse. Her father, against the wish of an unfortunate soothsayer, brings it into the city. She watches from her window as the people dance and sing. She should join them, she knows; the war is over, the enemy is gone. But she cannot tear herself from her room. The war is over but her husband is still gone.

And that night she awakes to screams and the smell of smoke. She runs to the window and stares in horror as the city burns below. She watches a group of men run towards the palace. She looks over at their son. They will come for him, the son of their greatest enemy, and the wife that bore him. She finds a sword amongst his things. It is old and slightly rusted and heavy in her hands. She can barely lift the point off of the ground. But they will not take her son without a fight. She hears footsteps outside of the door. She readies the sword. The door opens and she swings…

A man screams, but more take his place. Her courage suddenly deserts her in the face of so many men. All that matters is her son. She runs to him and snatches him up before the men can do anything. She holds him tight against her breast, staring in fear – like a hunted rabbit – into the faces of the men that could kill him. And then they part. And…a boy swaggers forward. He is only a boy, he cannot be any older than fourteen, and yet he stands head and shoulders above the rest, and they clearly answer to him. He smirks at her, and then turns his attention to the bundle in her arms.

"So, this is the mighty warrior's child?" he sneers. She shrinks back from him, but her back hits the wall. There is nowhere for her to run. He knows it. He surges forward and grabs her, dragging her as she screams and kicks and curses. He barely notices, simply pulling her along until there is suddenly fresh air and the wind against her face and smoke blowing into her eyes and NO!

She tries to stop him, slapping his prepubescent face and kicking his shins, but he simply snarls and grabs hold of the child in her arms, wrenching him away. She is forced to watch as her child, their child, is thrown from the tops of those high high walls, which only the gods could have built. He screams all the way down.

She is a ghost after that. She doesn't feel pain. She doesn't feel sad. She doesn't feel anger. She is above all that.

She is somehow on the beach. The ships came back. It was all a rouse. All a plan. Her son is dead. Their son is dead.

She is placed in a tent with the other women. She awakes a little then, when she sees how few of her sisters remain. She weeps with them.

Her mother is incandescent in her anger, shrieking and yelling and shouting, and all the good it does her, for the men only shout at her to shut up. She is not a queen here, only a slave.

The women are paired off with the leaders of the enemy. Her seeress sister goes with the High King, to be his mistress. She is given to the man that killed her son. The gods are cruel. She hates them.

Her master is just as cruel as the gods, beating her in turn for the beating she gave him last night. She does not feel the pain. She only exists, barely functioning. She wants to die.

And on the boat back to the conquerors' lands, she does. There is a storm that blows out of nowhere. The men are desperate to try and keep the ship from sinking, and they don't notice when they leave the new slaves unguarded. She runs up from the hold, and before her new master can stop her, she dives into the ocean. The water slaps her down, surrounds and fills her, her fine dress dragging her under. She doesn't fight Poseidon's embrace. She longs for it. As the blackness closes over her eyes, she thinks only that she will be with him, soon.

In this life, he was Hector, breaker of horses. She was Andromache, daughter of Eetion.

**A/N Ok, I hope nobody is crying. I'm sorry that it all went wrong, but these are tragic tales. And to any Classicists who are furious that I changed the myth slightly at the end, let me just say that the thought of Andromache being Neoptolemos' slave/spear-bride for the rest of her life was enough to depress me that I made her commit suicide instead. It's close enough to the myth that she is on her way to Greece, but enough changed that it isn't quite so depressing (I thought). Anyway, did anybody guess who it was? **


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